Am I Really Doing This?

Menu

Tag Archives: sorority girl

Well, it’s a New Year people. Like the rest of the earth’s population, I too have decided to get healthy during this year of the dragon. I made a vow to stick with my goal. No more failed resolutions of losing five pounds, showing up on time, or letting fruit go bad. No more shame spiraling in February when I clearly “failed” in following through. Oh this time – it’s on.

Having just survived my first week of sweat, spandex, and swearing; I’d like to take a journey back in time to see what led to this decision. Could it have been all those nights watching The Biggest Loser while eating spaghetti and meatballs? Or was the time I accidentally flipped on the Victoria Secret’s sexy runway show (damn those bitches are skinny!)…and then had two beers and some Fritos? Maybe it has something to do with the fact I think salsa is a vegetable and should be recognized on the food pyramid.

Oh no, I decided to pay somebody to beat my ass because my brain and my body have gone their separate ways.

Let me explain.

In my head (you can already tell this is going to be a recipe for disaster) I am super fit. I am teaching aerobics, just like I did in college; I am taking a spinning class for an hour and a half; I am still a dancer able to do the splits, kick high into the air, and twirl and shake things without them wobbling or flapping in the breeze; I also wear clothes that show my belly button (it was a fashionable Gwen Stefani look). I am strong and limber.

Okay, here is what my body is actually doing: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Seriously. Oh I have been going to the gym alright, but have I broken a sweat? Nope. I am pretty sure my workout routine over the last couple of years equals the strength training of me going into the whirlpool and eating a ham sandwich. And flexibility? If you were to ask me to touch my toes the action would resemble something between a drunken sorority girl falling off a curb and a patient recovering from hip replacement surgery. Throw in the fact that I grunt like a ninety-something man with emphysema every time I bend over to retrieve a toy off the floor and you can see the problem.

Uh, I think it’s putting it mildly to say that I needed a swift kick of das boot to my rump shaker.

Enter, The Boot Camp.

Day One (Insert the Law and Order “Dong Dong” sound) – Alarm sounds at 5:30 a.m. I have seriously not risen at this hour since….well…ever. Oh wait – a couple of times when I had a flight to catch. I show up at the gym with my pupils yet to adjust to the light. There is a lot of lifting things and planking (Christ the planking!) and my arms shaking from using muscles (I use that term lightly here) that have not been used since learning gross motor skills as a toddler.

Day Two – Getting out of bed proves a challenge. It resembles something of a beached turtle on its back. Eventually I just log roll off the bed and onto the dog resting peacefully on the floor.

Day Three – 5:30 a.m. I can do this, I say to myself. I get to the gym pretty peppy, meet some more boot campers and sweat like a hippie in a heated yurt.

Day Four – Shit I’m tired.

Day Five – 5:30 a.m. …5:36 a.m. …5:42 a.m. …crap. More planking (this is bullshit), twisting and jumping with the heavy ball (maybe I’ll just roll it), and spelling the alphabet in the air with your legs while trying to balance your ass on a rubber ball (are you F’ing kidding me?).

At the conclusion of the week I almost engraved a trophy for myself for making it through. I made a plan for 2012 and I am doing my best to stick to it. Some days I might want to chuck a free weight at the trainer, other days I may do an extra bicep curl, but what I won’t do is beat myself up for not being perfect this year.

Whether your resolution is to turn off the light when you leave a room, stop volunteering for every committee that comes your way, or to be patient with the dipshit at Starbuck’s who always gets your order wrong, be kind to yourself. This year, next year, or ten years from now, change takes time (or so they say). Kicking yourself in the pants for not being perfect gets you nowhere…